Deadhour Drabbles
by glassamilk
Summary: A collection of request drabbles featuring brotherly Denmark/Sweden, Denmark/Norway, Denmark/Hungary, and one with some unorthodox house pets.
1. DenmarkSweden

They leave a trail of red in the snow as they move.

A thin layer of ice crunches beneath Denmark's boots and the air is uncomfortably crisp, even through his layers of wool and leather, rips and tears leaving his skin vulnerable to the sharp wind. On any other day, the weather might not bother him- he's used to it by now. He's seen worse; days when the sea has frozen thick enough to cross by foot and the trees have split under the brittle white. But today he has no patience for it, not when his muscles ache under the strain of dragging a sword with one arm and Sweden with the other.

"Just keep breathin', buddy," he grumbles into the side of his cloak. Through the fabric, he can't quite see Sweden, bruised and bleeding out into the front of his tunic, but he can feel the slow, measured breaths of unconsciousness against his neck. "Almost home."

It's a lie and he knows it. There isn't a chance that they'll make it back by nightfall. Not at this rate. Not when they're both too exhausted to walk properly. Not when they have to be this careful. Not when there might still be people after them. It's pathetic, really, that he has to flee like this, but he needs to get Sweden out of the ice and to somewhere covered enough to patch him up, and he really, _really_ doesn't have the time to be getting into unnecessary brawls. His clothes are already stained and if Sweden dies on him out here, he's going to get a lot heavier. He'll be back in a few days if he does kick out, but carrying him for that long isn't an option. Not in snow this deep. Not this far out.

Plus, if the bastard is going to die, the least Denmark can do is get him somewhere warm to do it.

"Dammit, Sve, why can't you ever get your ass kicked closer to home?" He sighs and shifts him up a little higher, trying to keep his boots from dragging too much. "I'm not sayin' you gotta do it at my place, but if I gotta bail you out, it's the least ya could do."

Sweden doesn't reply. Not like he's expecting one.

Frozen brambles scrape together and a flurry of snow follows the trail of three men as they burst into the clearing. They don't say a word, merely brandish their swords and step into a triangle around Denmark; they're with the same band as before. And it's a goddamn travesty that they have as much clothing on as they do when Denmark does not. He stares the first man down, turning slowly.

"We really gonna do this now?" He calls. "I'm kinda busy if ya haven't noticed." His arm tightens around Sweden's waist and he draws him in a bit closer. "Told ya once that y'can't have 'im, so ya might as well be on your way." He nods in the direction of the path. "Go on, get."

He's getting really sick of no one responding to anything he says.

"All right, then. I guess we _are_ doin' this now." He bends his knees and lays Sweden out behind him, unclasping his own cloak and laying it out over him, building a cautious barrier between his brother and the trio of thieves too damn cowardly to face him in anything but an ambush. He straightens, turning head-on into the wind, and draws his sword. The footing is terrible, slick with ice, and he isn't liking how the cold is starting to make his eyes burn. As he lifts his arm, his muscles tense in protest, but the dull shine of silver is a nice enough sight, he supposes. Chain mail clinks. Leather creaks. No one moves. This is, if anything, a one-sided fight, and odds are, they're both going to spend the next few days as bodies in the white drifts by the border until Norway can find them.

But still.

It's the thought that counts.

"Keep your hands offa him."

He leaves a trail of red in the snow as he moves.


	2. DenmarkNorway

Denmark doesn't like nature. He doesn't like hiking, he doesn't like climbing, and he really, really, _really_ doesn't like camping. He hates the bugs and how they all seem to flock to him, surely the prelude to something bigger and more terrifying, something like a moose or a bear, and the mere thought of trying to stumble his way into the thicket for a midnight toilet break is enough to make him add a new lock to his door once a year, just in case he ever manages to get too drunk to say no. He likes the ocean—open water and an endless sky makes him feel more at home than anything else on the planet, especially on a nice, clear day where he can practically smell the horizon. Warm sun reflecting off of cold water; _that's_ what the outdoors ought to be.

Not clinging desperately to a ten-meter wall of rock suspended over a goddamn river.

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe._

He hates this. He hates this so much. He hates the woods and the rocks and the dirt and holy fuck he is going to fall if he doesn't get to the other side of the river _this instant and-_

"Are you all right?"

He tries to suppress the vertigo when he turns his head to look over at Norway, also making his way across the river, albeit a lot more relaxed looking. "W-what?"

"Asked if yer okay. Yer turnin' green."

"Fine." Denmark swallows. "Totally fine. Perfect, in fact!"

Norway pauses and Denmark tries not to scream at him to hurry up because his knees aren't going to stop shaking unless they make it to the other side _right now._ "Yer sure?" Norway raises an eyebrow. " You don't look fine."

A loose patch of stone sends bits of debris falling into the river below them. Denmark tries not to piss himself.

_breathebreathebreathe_

"H-how much further to th' other side?"

Norway tilts his head slightly and drops one hand away from the wall (away from the wall!) to point to the bare patch of land where their path continues. "Not far. Might get there quicker if y'move faster." He slides his hand to his hip and turns, staring out through the trees. "Is a nice view, though. Wouldn't mind lingerin' a bit."

_BREATHE BREATHE BREATHEBREATHEBREATHE_

"Yeah, awesome view," Denmark grips tight to the rock and starts to shuffle forward again. "Let's look at it on th' way back, yeah? Gonna be dark soon, right?" He laughs nervously, eyes drifting down again. "Gotta get to the campsite!"

Norway blinks at him, unimpressed. "It's noon."

"Noon, eight o'clock, same difference." Oh sweet fuck, there go his knees again. "Shouldn't risk it!"

It takes a few moments of empty quiet before Denmark realizes that Norway is laughing at him in that weird, silent way that he always does. "C'mon, y'great baby." The dry rock crackles as Norway begins to move again. "Not much further ta go."

It really isn't. It's less than a minute before Norway reaches for him and pulls him back to solid ground, patiently waiting with a hand on his arm while he tries to get his breath back and maybe not throw up into the bushes.

Denmark doesn't like nature. But Denmark really likes spending time with Norway.

He isn't sure which of the two will kill him first.


	3. DenmarkHungary

****WARNING: MATURE CONTENT AHEAD*****

* * *

Sweat-matted, brown hair tickles his chest. His breath hitches—Hungary squeezes her knees and they dig into his sides, forcing a gasp out of him, aimed straight for her, and she cranes her neck down to force their lips together. His hands keep steady on her hips, despite how his elbows shake, and he holds her in place above him, feeling the coarse texture of white lace under his fingers, above old scars and more of the same, rough skin of her palms against his stomach. He can taste himself on her tongue and he's pretty sure she knows it by the way she grips his hair and bites at his mouth.

The bed springs squeak.

Light from the street below reflects through the window, illuminating the curve of her back as she straightens, throwing her head back, a shudder running through her in time with her rotating hips. He wants to appreciate the sight of her, flesh flushed red with sex and eyes blinking rapidly, but he isn't sure that he has enough blood left in his brain to manage such a task, and just forces himself not to close his eyes, digging his fingers into her and breathing noisily through his nose. They're drunk, the both of them. Even through the musk that's filled the room, he can still smell the case of beer they split and, somehow, that makes things less surreal than they already are.

Her hands are in his hair again and this time, she drags him up and presses his face into her breasts, burying her gasps in his scalp. He doesn't let go of her, but he licks what he can reach and that's enough to make her buck against him, keening in his ear, breath falling hot and damp across his cheek as her fingernails scrape into his shoulder blades. She murmurs something, too quiet to catch, and suddenly, the desire for showmanship is gone and Denmark loses himself in the wet slaps of skin on skin and the way her sweat tastes.

She makes a small, desperate noise. He relishes it and grabs her close.

He doesn't know what exactly it is that they're doing or what they are to the other. They won't cuddle when they're done and they won't call each other tomorrow. They won't make plans for later in the week. They won't touch gently like lovers because they aren't lovers.

But she has a pack of cigarettes in her purse and they still have half a cake to finish.

The streetlamp goes out and the night continues without incident.


	4. Lille Pige

_lille pige = "little girl"_

* * *

"You have five seconds ta explain why the house smells like this."

Denmark looks up from the plastic pen he has arranged in the living room and leaps to his feet, beaming as Norway kicks his shoes off by the front door. "Nor, yer home! I've got a surprise for ya!"

Norway eyes him. "Don't much care for surprises." He wrinkles his nose. "Especially if they reek."

Denmark laughs and pulls him inside. "No, you'll love 'er, I promise! She's so cute!"

"She?"

"Pretty sure!"

Norway sits down on the couch, slowly crossing his arms and staring warily across the gate of the cage. "Den, if you've brought home another cat…"

"It's not a cat!" Denmark reaches into the pile of fleece blankets in the corner of the pen and gathers a squirming _something_ up into his arms. "Way better! The cats are gonna be so jealous!" He turns around and throws his arms up, presenting Norway with their new "pet." "Nor, meet lille pige!"

Norway recoils backwards. The tiny, pink piglet in Denmark's hands snuffles and kicks it's little feet out, trying to squirm free. "_What_ is that?"

"It's a pig!" Denmark grins and pulls said pig back, cradling her in one arm and stroking her head with his free fingers. "Isn't she cute?"

"You brought a _pig_ home?"

"Yeah!"

"_Why?_"

Denmark laughs and holds the wriggling pig up above his head, wiggling her around a bit. "I like pigs!"

"Pigs belong on a farm, Denmark, not in our living room."

"You can totally housetrain pigs." He pauses when lille pige screeches and sets her back down on the floor. "The internet said so." He lets her go and she immediately scurries off to hide under the couch.

Norway pinches the bridge of his nose. "The cats are going ta go inta conniptions, you realize."

"Eh." Denmark shrugs and lays out on his stomach, peering down under the furniture for her. "I locked the cats in the kitchen with a few open cans of tuna. They'll forgive me eventually."

Norway stares at him. "You're really planning on keeping her?"

"Of course! Y'don't bring an animal home unless ya plan on keepin' it!" He reaches out, scowling when he can't find her.

Norway sighs and drops down onto his knees, grabbing under the couch and snatching the now squealing piglet out. He holds her out at arms-length, scowling. "You're an idiot," he mutters. "Can't trust ya ta do anything properly."

Denmark sits back on his feet and frowns. "Whadya mean?"

"I mean," Norway turns to him. "If you're gonna bring home an animal, at least name it right."

"What's wrong with lille pige?"

"Fer starters," Norway loops a finger in the piglet's tail and lifts it up. "He's a boy."

Denmark tilts his head. "Oooh, now that ya hold her like that, I can see that."

"He," Norway corrects him.

"Right."

A pause.

"So…" Denmark sidles up next to him. "Can we keep 'im?"

Norway huffs and lets lille pige run back under the couch. "You're askin' permission _now?_"

Denmark sweeps him up into a crushing hug. "Thanks, Nor! Yer the best!" He bolts off to grab up their new pet and disappears into the hall. "C'mon, time to meet th' cats!"

Norway leans back against the back of the couch, eyes shut, and waits.

From the kitchen, a plate shatters among a sudden chorus of hissing, oinking, and panicked Danish.

Norway makes a mental note to buy a bigger litter box in the morning.


End file.
